


An Opera Ghost

by blondiebatgirl



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Christine had her chance, F/M, TEAM PHANTOM - Freeform, if you haven't seen the horror movie count yourself lucky, kind of pulling from everything, the musical the movie the horror movie, theres not going to be much from the horror movie probably buT MAYBE, who's up for some Meg/Erik shipping?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondiebatgirl/pseuds/blondiebatgirl
Summary: A curse for one and a blessing for another. When Christine noticed the swell in her stomach, she realized the price she was paying for one night when her heart belonged to another. There was no keeping her. There was no keeping a reminder of that time. Raoul had a simpler plan– infants due everyday– but though they'd been told the Phantom was long dead, Christine didn't believe it.Now the child is in the hands of her father, left behind at the Opera Populaire. A prize to the Phantom, a charge to the Girys. The opera house will rise again, if only to house the growing girl, named by her father after the leading lady in his opera. Aminta. A ghost in the opera house alongside her father, the Phantom.((This is an alternate ending instead of Love Never Dies. The events of that musical are non-existant in this story.))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is something I wrote up some years ago and is already posted on Wattpad (https://www.wattpad.com/story/1977180-an-opera-ghost-a-phantom-of-the-opera-fan-fiction). However, I want to rewrite a few things in it and CHANGE THE ENDING. Mainly because I don't want the sequel. I just want the one work to stand on its own. If you've read this before (and in some chance are reading it again), there won't be much difference in the beginning. Just... corrections. A lot of corrections.

"Soon.” He swept down the long hall that led to his dungeon of a home. Rats scurried around him on the ground, fleeing from the touch of light his torch provided in the otherwise dark area. If it weren’t for his own residence, this area would never see light. "She will bring it soon..."  He smiled to himself, knowing the pain he was causing the woman he had loved so dearly. The woman who had cruelly betrayed him. The woman who he had secretly deceived. Miss Christine Daae. The new Countess de Changy.

Christine had left a little under a year ago with her lover, abandoning him to the mob her dearest Count had led down to his home. He, of course, had hidden. After all he was a Phantom and his opera house had many places to conceal one’s existence from onlookers. The men who had come to take his life had hovered around his home only a couple of weeks, in small groups to keep a watchful eye as if the Phantom might decide to surrender himself to their justice. In the end, he wasn’t sure if they had grown bored with the search or if they had realized their utter inability of capturing a man who wasn’t quite a man at all. Probably the first—men weren’t known to admit to incompetence. The only one who known he hadn’t gone, who was aware of his stable presence in the Opera Populaire was Madame Giry, who he held carefully under his thumb with the threat of her daughter's life. She knew it was no threat to take lightly. His were never those to be ignored. And so she kept her mouth shut and kept her place at the opera house as well, watching as he had instructed her.

Yes, Christine had left him with a ruined life and a broken heart that still managed to beat in his chest—something he was once sure must be hollow—, but he had given her something worse to take. He had given her his seed, his child. The night she had been him was much less innocent than she had painted it to be to her little Count. Of course, she had been entranced with his song and a good bit of wine, and perhaps she had wanted to prove something. Her worth, maybe. Or maybe she wanted him to know how unafraid she was. He had not known until recently about Christine’s pregnancy but rumors spread fast in the city, especially scandal. She was too far along to have been conceived within the few months of marriage shared by the de Changy’s, who had taken time to arrange a ceremony so glorious it was as if they were trying to paint themselves into a fairytale ending. The prince fought the monster and swept his bride-to-be away. It had to be his own. And if he was right—he was hardly ever wrong—nine months was approaching. It’d be born soon, a punishment for Christine from the hell that controlled his fate. Perhaps even a gift for himself for all the troubles. She would know if the child was his rather than Raoul's if she already hadn’t. He was sure she had kept up her act as a sweet little virgin until the moment she bulged with child, she’d never let Raoul know she would act as a whore, a lesser woman. The Count could just pick those sort off the street. The Phantom hoped the child would look like himself, that it would have his eyes. One a different color than the other, the only abnormality in himself he somewhat appreciated. The eyes would show Christine instantly that the child was his even if she tried to deny it to herself. She had called his own beautiful.

Once upon a time, she had.

Christine would not be able to bear having a reminder of himself, of their time together. She wouldn't be able to keep a ghost of her past. He was almost sure of that but if she could, if she was strong enough and her new husband noble enough—which the Phantom highly doubted that he was but _maybe_ for once he would be wrong—, the child would eventually find its way to the opera house. _His_ child would feel the call to come to the true home of its blood and he would claim it as his. The time wouldn't matter, not really. He had all the time in the world. He had eternity to wait.

He was, after all, a phantom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just posting these chapters as I edit them so enjoy!

The moment Christine had made the realization of her pregnancy, she had prayed that the child would die inside of her. It was sinful to do such and maybe that was why the child kept growing. Because it was a foul curse by the Phantom. Or that was what she claimed, crying, when Raoul finally discovered her secret. That she held the devil’s child within her. She claimed she didn’t know how it could have happened, that the Phantom must’ve done something to keep her asleep. To take the innocence she had told Raoul remained intact before their marriage.

It had only been one night. One awful mistake of a night. What sort of fate was it that one night stuck to her like a plague?

There were options. Of course there were options, and Raoul had suggested each and every one. None safe, but all carried the high probability that the child would no longer be a problem. That her prayers would be answered and that it would die within her. Perhaps if Christine didn’t fear God, she would have agreed to drink a concoction that would poison her womb. Or perhaps she still wouldn’t. It wasn’t really God she feared, after all. It was the devil.

He would know. The Phantom had always known things. He had given her mercy once but if she destroyed his blood, would he be so forgiving? Would he seek out the child if he knew of it? She was sure she knew and she shared this fear as she paced, belly large. The town doctor had told her bed was her best option but she simply could not stand lying down. Not when fear addled her.

But Raoul gave her some hope. He said he had a plan. And she trusted him just as she always had when he told her no harm would come to them.

The whole time she had to wonder if he really trusted her. Her and her story.

In the end it probably wouldn’t matter.

The child came and when the midwife asked what she might be named, Christine only turned her head away. She didn’t want to see the baby but still allowed it to be placed at her chest once it was clean, guiding it’s head blindly so it could drink from her. She could feel soft skin and thought perhaps the child hadn’t gained her father’s deformity. From Raoul’s gaze, she might’ve thought it came out blue.

“It’s a girl, Madame. Do you have a name picked out?” the midwife once again prompted. Christine only shook her head as Raoul turned away.

This was her punishment for running from the opera house, for escaping him. For having a night in that bed of his.

The midwife, eventually, left. And that’s when Raoul came back to the bedside, tossed a blanket to Christine.

“Swaddle it. I don’t want to touch it.”

It sounded so cruel spilling from his lips but touching the kin of the Phantom, even though it was hers as well, made her feel dirty in a way. Maybe it was just the guilt. And maybe it was the guilt that gave her pause.

“What are your plans, Raoul?” She had to ask, had to know. It would weigh harshly on her soul if she didn’t. The man’s eyes narrowed at the way her narrow fingers curled almost protectively over the child’s head as the little thing continued to drink. Maternal instinct. Fear for her child, even if it was a child she didn’t want.

“Plenty of children die soon after birth and plenty know that this _creature_ is as good as a bastard. It’s father is in hell—I’ll send her to him. Now swaddle her, Christine.”

The woman sat up, legs curled to her chest to cradle the little one between her legs. A wail as the infant’s lips were separated her breast.

“You will do no such thing,” she hissed. And she wasn’t sure if she was saying it out of the love a mother has for child or if it was self-preservation. Perhaps both instincts were acting upon her. "He wants her. He _knows_ , Raoul, and he will seek her out. If she is dead—”

“ _He_ is dead, Christine!” the Count boomed and the child screeched. Both of them went silent and the woman guided the infant’s head back towards her, felt her latch and begin to suckle so that she calmed.

“Who is to say that? Those fools who brought no body, no proof to us when we asked? He’s still there, can’t you see! He lives on and if you… if _we_ …”

“Fine.” The word was harsh but it made Christine close her mouth rather than continue her case. “Fine. If you are so sure of this, I will make a trip to that damned opera house and there is where I will leave the child. If the Phantom knows as you claim he does, surely he will retrieve his seed and be done with it.”

This Christine had no quarrel with and she settled back.

“Tomorrow, then. You can order a coach and—”

“Tonight.” Raoul picked the blanket up once more, held it out close to Christine’s face, “Swaddle her. I will deliver her tonight and in the morning, we will wrap a loaf and bury it in the family plot. No one need know of this… this _shame_ of yours.”

The words pained Christine to her core and she snatched the blanket.

“Let her finish feeding. She’ll be quiet if she’s full.”

Though irritated, Raoul did not argue to that and went to sit at the end of their bed, face turned away. A few minutes passed before the woman moved again, took a shaky breath as she maneuvered to wrap her first born into the thin blanket provided by her husband. She wanted to tell him it was too cold, that the child would need something more to keep her warm, but she felt she had pushed him far enough. The trip was hardly an hour. It would be fine.

In the few moments she had, Christine studied that small face, little eyes blinking open. One bright and one dark. The Phantom’s eyes and just a hint at malformed skin near the side of her face. She secured the blanket so it wouldn’t come out of place. If Raoul hadn’t scooped the little bundle up, Christine might have brought her close again. Held her.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were becoming attached,” he sneered at her. Raoul had already tugged his coat on, thick around him. Much warmer than the little one’s cover.

“She is blameless in this, Raoul…” _She is mine, too_. He glared and a moment of quiet passed them. “Wait a moment.”

Christine rose and crossed to her wardrobe, dragged open the drawer on the bottom and pulled from it an old shawl made of thick, dark fur. She never wore it. As a countess, she was to dress the part and this piece was ragged from use. But still, it was warm.

“You’re sending him _gifts_ now?”

“If you put her in this, anyone who sees you may think it’s an animal rather than a child.”

His lips pursed but he took the fur and wrapped it around the swaddled form.

Without another word, he left and Christine made no move to further delay him, only watched as he went. Her head tipped back to the pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling. She had, at least, preserved the life of the child. Her child. Unnamed and to be delivered to a place that may become her prison. Or her tomb.

The Phantom was alive, though, that she was sure of. He wouldn’t let blood of his die. No. He would know she was coming. And he would be ready.


	3. Chapter 3

Raoul had wondered if he might be able to ride himself on horseback to take the child, but in the end, he took a chance and walked to the carriage house that settled not far from the de Changy manor—a little business with good funding from his household but not connected. He was lucky to catch one of the coachmen awake and while there was no carriage hitched, there was a cart ready. The count supposed that was even better a choice. Carts came in and out of the village at all times of the day and night. Merchants and traders, travelers.

“I need to get to the Opera Populaire, monsieur,” Raoul said as he took his seat in the back of the cart, feeling loose hay trying to prick him.

"Monsieur de Changy, that's over an hour's ride," the coachman said, beginning to complain, but he was silenced when Raoul held out to him a bag with many jingling coins, "Yes, of course, monsieur."

"Thank you," Raoul said, glancing at the child in his arms, then looking away as he realized it was still wide awake. Looking up at him with those peculiar eyes. “I do promise to pay you handsomely for your service as well as your silence.”

" Is that a baby you have?" the coachman asked. Raoul looked to see the man gazing back at him with a bit of concern in his eyes. "Are you sure it will be okay on this long ride?"

"It will be just fine. My wife insured that it would be warm, so please, may we begin with the journey?" Raoul asked, trying to keep his voice level as his anger flared a bit within him. It was none of this man’s concern and he felt _mocked_ just holding the infant. Could just see a smirk on the Phantom’s lips. He should throw the baby under the cart wheel.

But what if Christine’s concerns were right? What if the Phantom still out there? She was right, after all. They never saw evidence for the claim that the monster was dead. No body was recovered. They had not even found the mask.

The coachman nodded and snapped the reigns of the two large work horses attached to the cark.

~-~-~-~-~

"A cart is approaching the opera house.” The voice might have surprised him if he hadn’t heard the steps leading closer, soft much unlike the woman who made them. But then, she had been a ballerina once in her youth. Looking around, the Phantom saw her looking stern as she stood out of the water's reach. Her gaze was on himself, balanced on a small boat making its way through the ravine that went to his home of sorts. One of his unnecessary additions, really, but finding a way to make it had given him entertainment at one point.

"Do you believe it's them, Madame?" asked the Phantom, making the boat stop by pushing down on the long rod he used to steer it with. The wood sunk into the mud on the bottom of the ravine. She did of course. Otherwise, she would make no move towards him. Their relationship had only become more strained through the years and in these days, she preferred to keep distance. The Phantom preferred the distance as well.

"No one else would approach the opera house," Madame Giry assured him, "It’s the middle of the night and the opera house is only ruins of what it was. Even in the day, people keep their distance." Most thought it haunted. The only reason it still stood was for the little troupe of ballerinas that Madame Giry taught. Or that was the publicly known reason. The messieurs who owned the disheveled place had received warning about their maintenance and ownership. The Phantom did not now require a paycheck. But he did require they keep their hand in the business, or else.

Like Madame Giry, they had learned not to take threats lightly.

"Very well then," the Phantom said. He steered the boat back to where Madame Giry stood. "I shall go greet our guests. Be sure your little dancers do not disturb us."

"As you wish," she nodded. There was a pause, as if she might have thought to say something. Like she might have asked him not to hurt Raoul as he ached to. But she said nothing more, just hurried off down the passage from which she had come. The Phantom followed her like a shadow for a distance, then turned off into a different corridor of his underground labyrinth. One only he knew how to navigate completely. His torch did not burn as bright, but it was enough so that he could see, sparks flickering as they fought to stay alive. Even if they didn’t, he could navigate through his home blind.

~-~-~-~-~

"I will only be a moment," Raoul said to the coachman as the horses stamped to a stop in front of the large opera house. One tossed its head, seeming restless. He wondered if they sensed the awful presence of the Phantom. "Please just wait here for me."

"As you wish," the coachman nodded though he, too, seemed uneasy. Raoul supposed he could place that on the count of the opera house itself. It looked desolate, the sort of place you would expect to hear the cries of the dead. And so many had died here. Bowing his head, Raoul climbed from the back of the cart with the child in his arms. She had, as Christine had expected, fallen asleep. He started down the path towards the grand doors, knocking a few times on one them, though he expected no one to answer. The day had faded right as midwife had arrived to help with delivery, the child born in the night and now it was nearing the change of morning. However, one of the doors swung open with an eerie creak that seemed to echo through the opera house. No one stood there to greet him, to ask his purpose. That made his stomach sink.

"Monsieur, I bid you welcome," a deep voice resonated in a way that seemed too familiar, "to _my_ opera house." Raoul couldn't help but let a snort escape him. The Phantom's Opera. Ridiculous. If the two fops who had owned the place a year ago had sold out, it would not have been to a ghost. "I see you got my wedding present.” That comment made any humor escape the count and a sneer crossed his lips. Raoul resisted looking down at the infant looked down at the infant, resisted the urge to throw the child. That wouldn’t help. It would only entice anger.

“I won’t play these games with you,” he spat into the darkness, “You want what’s _yours_? Take it.” A few steps in so the coachman wouldn’t see as Raoul slipped the swaddled infant out of the fur, held the thin blanket as he lowered her to the floor. “You ought to be ashamed. And here I thought you had an ounce of humanity when you allowed Christine to take leave but you _cursed_ her with this… this _abomination_.”

“A child that is also _hers_ ,” that voice reminded. The direction it came from Raoul could now tell and he turned his head towards the stairwell, a flash of white moving as the Phantom descended. “It takes two to make a life.”

“You took advantage—”

“Is that the story she has been feeding you?” There was amusement in the Phantom’s voice and Raoul wanted to kick the child. Dash its skull. Anger furled in him but rather than that he took steps back towards the entrance, holding the fur as if the baby still rested in it. “I rather thought she might _keep_ the child.”

“I would never keep a piece of you, _demon_ ," Raoul spat as that white spot in the dark came closer, so that he could see the rest of the shadowed figure.

"I am the demon?" There was a snort. "You are the one who stole away Christine while she was bearing my child, and now you have separated a new born from its mother. How do expect me to feed it?"

“I am sure you will find a way.” There was nothing more said as Raoul took another step, insuring he would not be grabbed, dragged back into that damned opera house where the baby lay squirming in her blankets. A little wail left her and the Phantom stepped forward, knelt to pick her up.

Raoul turned on his heel and went back to the cart, the doors still open and he cradled the fur in his arms. The coachman looked a bit pale as he approached and for a moment he wondered what all he had seen.

“Are you well?” Raoul asked as he climbed into the back. One glance and he saw the figure of the Phantom, a bundle in his arms, a cry piercing the night. A child wailing for her mother. “Go. _Go_.”

The reigns snapped. Questions hung in the air.

“Monsieur—”

“I am paying you for your silence, remember.”

“What sort of deal with the devil did you make?”

“You would have to ask my wife. She mothered his child,” he hissed into the night air and as an afterthought added, “Unknowingly.” Those words only made him feel as if he needed to add more. “I simply was returning the child to its father but this is obviously a bad view on my family. Neither my wife or I wanted people to know of this little mistake.”

“Why not just keep the child, why—”

“Monsieur I fail to see how this is any of your business.” Raoul’s narrow eyes found the back of the coachman’s head and the other fell into the silence of the night. “I would prefer this trip stay quiet. A visit to a better doctor, if anyone is to ask.”

That was all that was said. Upon arrival back into the village, the Count de Changy payed the coachman and payed him far better than he might’ve if the man had never asked questions. Come morning, as a carriage passed through town, the coachman who had ridden the night before spared a glance towards the little cemetery the town kept. There he saw the count lowering the fur shawl he had carried the night before into a small grave. His wife wept.

No one ever asked about that little trip. The coachman, though, did not forget it.


	4. Chapter 4

A name was an important thing for a child. But as Erik studied her, blood of his own, all of the names he had pondered seemed to fall so lowly to her. His head dipped and he kissed gently between those eyes which opened to look at him. So small and fragile and yet she looked so frustrated. He wondered if she was frightened of him. So many were. Perhaps it was something else, though. He took the mask away from his face, the large doors closed now to block the cool night air.

"Hello, my little angel," he cooed, his voice almost cracking with emotion he did not know he had. "I'm sorry you've had to go through all of this hassle tonight." The baby made a small noise and the Phantom laughed as she squirmed. Now he knew what was wrong. The smell made that obvious.

“Is that her, then?” The Phantom turned to see Madame Giry slip out of one of the lower theatre doors, make her way towards him.

“Were you listening in on us, Madame?” He sounded amused and really he was in a way. It reminded him of long ago when roles were reversed, when he was still young in this life that stretched so much longer than normal ones did.

“Yes.” There was no shame in her voice though her nose did scrunch as she came closer. “It has been some time since I have had to deal with one this young. Have you named her?”

“What name could I possibly give to this little angel that would be fitting? I thought of Christine, though now…”

“A child needs their own identity and the shoes she fills certainly does not need to be that of Christine Daae.” Madame Giry held arms out expectantly and the Phantom supplied the infant who whined, uncomfortable. “Oh hush, little one. We will clean you up. Come along.”

She was speaking to the Phantom then, and he followed if only to keep a close eye on his child. They mounted the stairs, up to the room that used to be owned by Christine when she had been in the Opera Populaire. Madame Giry’s eyes did not miss the thick layer of dust that coated everything but the mirror that could slide so easily open. Did not miss the rose that was only now losing the life in it’s petals.

“This room must be cleaned,” she said simply, “We can easily make adjustments. Turn it into a nursery of sorts. It will be better for her to stay _above_ ground and I do not plan to travel down into the cellars everyday whenever my help is required.”

“So you will help?”

“If,” the Madame started, eyes cutting to the Phantom, “And only _if_ you drop your threats towards my daughter. I do not deserve such hung over me.”

“You betrayed me once, Giry, how do I know you won’t do the same again.” That sharp look remained.

“I had no choice.” The air seemed still. Much too still until the Madame used her free hand to shake the fading cover free from dust. It flew into the room around them, made the baby sneeze. "If I hadn't told them, Meg and I would have gotten into trouble. More than we could have borne.” Her voice steadily increased in volume as she lay the child down, unwrapped her from her layer of warmth. “I would have lost my position here. If you killed more and I was known never to have revealed you I would have been punished beyond measure. Would you like that? Do you want me to hang Erik?" The little girl screeched out a cry, as she was plucked from her mess. The Phantom took a step back, taken aback by Madame Giry’s words. The fact she had said his name.

"I did not think you remembered my given name, Madame." Madame Giry's hard face softened a bit as she turned her head to look upon the man she had cared for and served since she was just a young girl.

"I could not forget your name, Erik," she responded gently, before returning her attention to the child, doing her best to clean her with the unruined parts of the fabric. “Come morning we can clean her. For now, see if there is anything left behind in one of those drawers.”

He nodded and began searching through the old dresser. He found a petticoat, thicker than the blanket had been, and turned to give it to the Madame.

"Why do you never use it?" the Phantom- or Erik- asked. Madame Giry shook her head, took the petticoat, and began swaddling the child. She did not know why she had stopped calling the Phantom by his true name. Erik. Poor little Erik who she had saved from the circus where he was so vulnerable and so broken, only a sideshow of entertainment. Perhaps that was why Madame Giry stopped calling Erik just that. Because he had become strong. Had become dark. He had made himself seem so put together when he thought Christine had truly loved him. Had been so sure of himself, had killed anyone who stood in the way of his confident plans. However as she now looked at him, she saw just how lost and broken and vulnerable he was once more. He was no longer the head-strong Phantom who had planned his keeping of Christine; this man before her was little Erik, unsure and confused, but still stubbornly acting aflame about the previous year's events. He would never admit that he was aching. And Madame Giry would not make him do so.

"I don't know," Madame Giry lied, "But I will try to remember to call you Erik once more, my old friend."

"And you will help me? With her?" Erik asked, looking to his daughter rested on the bed and pressing a warm hand to her small cheek as she became fussy. Madame Giry would need to find a wet nurse, though that may not be too hard. Still, it would have to wait until sunrise so she could go into the village. Hopefully the child would not be too troublesome until then.

“Will you stop the threats towards Meg?" Madame Giry questioned. When Erik hesitated, the Madame sighed. “Can you not understand that I will not abandon you here? I could have gone, if I really wished.”

“Meg is in no danger, not from me. That I assure.”

“Then I will gladly help you with your daughter’s care.” A smile— a small smile, but a smile all the same— crossed onto Erik's face, something Madame Giry had not seen in quiet a long time. “In the morning, I will go out and fetch things for her.” She only hoped no one would ask questions of a young child in an opera house. A story was already constructing in her mind just in case anyone became curious at the reason a child was being kept in an opera house. Though she’d not seen him since she was young, Madame Giry had a brother. She could easily say it was an orphaned relation from his side.

"Thank you, Madame," Erik said, stroking his baby's cheek, “I will stay with her for tonight.”

"You never did tell name her," Madame Giry reminded Erik as he sat on the bed, pulled the little one to him, against his chest so that his lips could brush the top of her head. She seemed to ease into him. Though maybe Erik was just thinking she was, hoping that she already felt close to him.

“I never really expected I’d get the privilege to name a daughter.” Or any child. Even though he had expected a baby to be dropped off in another mind, in a realistic mind, he had been ready for the time to pass without any delivery. That Christine might keep her. That Raoul may do something that could not be undone.

“A child needs a name.” However when Erik only looked unsure, Madame Giry supplied him an idea. “What was the name of the leading lady from your opera? _Don Juan Triumphant_?”

“Aminta.” The name was said slowly, like he was tasting each syllable. Like he was remembering the part, Christine in his head. “The maiden’s name in the opera was Aminta… But is that a well enough name for her?”

“I think it is as lovely as any. A tribute to your work.” A work that would more than likely never see the stage again after its debut performance.

“Aminta, then,” Erik nodded and smiled down at the child as he sat on the bed.

“She probably will not be so calm in a few hours when she grows hungry,” Madame Giry said though she guessed it would be sooner than a few hours. Maybe one if Erik was lucky. “I will find a nursing woman to feed her for as long as needed. In the city they are never hard to come by.”

“Spare no expense… Just insure they can do their work here.”

“Of course. You rest while you can, Erik. I will check on you in the early morning before I go out.”

“Goodnight, Madame.” He pulled his feet onto the bed and laid back, the baby still against his chest.

Madame Giry took her leave, then. It was past midnight now. Yet when she arrived to her room, Meg was still awake in bed, reading by the light of a melting candle on its last inch of life. Her eyes flicked up when she heard her mother. They were sharing a room rather than the young woman staying in the hall with the rest of the ballerinas. It had been partially for Madame Giry’s own comfort during the threats of the Phantom and partially because the room was too large to be comfortably filled alone. It had belonged to La Carlotta when she still reigned as the Prima Donna over the opera house. It, like the room Christine had resided in, had not been damaged much in the fire. Two beds were pushed against the far wall on either side of a large wardrobe and the other walls were only decorated with fragments of paintings Meg had saved from the areas that had been licked by flame. Meg sat on one of the two beds now, the book being placed in her lap.

“Has it finally happened, mother?” Meg asked because Madame Giry had always tried to keep her daughter aware even as she tried to keep her safe. And Meg was always good at keeping secrets, had even kept the Phantom’s existence secret through Christine’s possible peril. Madame Giry had therefore seen no problem in sharing the expected arrival with her daughter, but to her surprise Meg had already known of Christine’s pregnancy. Apparently, the rumor had spread quickly from the village where the de Changy’s resided, however Meg had not expected to know that the most likely candidate for the father had indeed been the Phantom. Erik.  

“Yes,” Madame Giry nodded as she tugged her greying hair from its tight knot, pins dropping into a little dish she kept at her bedside. “In the morning, I need you to run the routine. I have other obligations to fufill.”  
“Aren’t you going to tell me about the baby?” Meg was nearly whining, placing her book aside now and looking intently towards her mother in the dim light as the elder Giry slipped from her robe. Got into her own bed.

“You wish to know?”

“Of course, I wish to know, mother! It is the _Phantom’s_ child.”

“Your fascination with him has always worried me, dearest.” At one time it had seemed ordinary enough. When the Phantom had been a story come true, when Meg was still a girl and only wanted more of those stories. And perhaps Madame Giry, at that time, had wished the Phantom would hear her daughter’s voice over Christine’s. But he hadn’t.

Perhaps if he had things would have been better. Gone smoother.

“Mother, please, I only want to know,” Meg huffed, standing from her bed and walking to her mother’s, sitting on the edge and near pouting.

“As you wish,” Madame Giry sighed with a bit of amusement, “It’s a little girl. He’s decided to call her Aminta.”

“From his opera?”

“Yes, from his opera. She’s still so small. It’s rather cruel, I think. They might’ve waited until she didn’t need nursing,” the Madame noted with a shake of her head, “But we will endure.”

“Do you think I might see her?”

“I’m sure you will, dearest. The Phantom… Erik is not leaving this place, nor are we. You will surely see her sometime soon enough.”

“Erik, is that his name?” Meg asked. Madame Giry glanced at her.

“Yes. Now go to bed. As I said, you will be leading the practice come morning.” With a sigh, Meg retreated to her bed. “And Meg?”

“Yes, mother?”

“I do not want you seeking the Phantom out, do you understand me? He will come to us if he wishes to speak and I do not want him moving his affections to you." Not right now. Not when the memory of Christine was so fresh and raw for him. Her daughter would not make a replacement bride for him. Madame Giry would not stand for her to be treated like a doll, like some sort of trophy.

“I won’t.” Meg had not been planning on it, she would not be spending her free time with the Phantom as Christine had. One day she just wanted to meet the man whom she had secretly fantasized over ever since she was small and heard the older ballerina's talking about him. She wanted to see what part myth he truly was for she knew herself he was no ordinary man.


	5. Chapter 5

The wet nurse sat with Meg in the room she and her mother used. Aminta was cradled in the nurse’s arms, one side of the older woman’s blouse pulled so that the baby could suckle. Usually it was Meg’s mother that would stay to watch after the woman, not that she wasn’t trustworthy. The nurse had the name of Tilda and she had bore six children of her own, and the youngest of them slept quietly in a bassinet in the corner, a few weeks older than Aminta. She was a very nice woman, kind, and had been coming now for several months for rather good pay. But Erik had made it clear he wanted someone watching his child when he himself could not, someone he himself knew. That left few options and with Madame Giry still teaching the troupe, she could not always be the one to sit in when the nurse arrived. For that, Meg’s own skills suffered but she made the most of it, spending the time bettering her mind. There was a small stack of books in the bottom of the wardrobe she shared with her mother as well as a thick pile of sheet music that she was learning to read. It had never been necessary. She was not a singer as Christine had been, though she did possess skill enough to hit the right notes and keep tune.

“What are you looking at now, Mademoiselle?” Tilda asked as one of her hands traced the baby’s back. The little girl now had a wardrobe of her own, one that never held the same clothes for too long whether due to her growth or the simple soiling that occasionally happened.

“A piece from _Il Muto_. I danced in one of the scenes when the opera house was still operating,” Meg replied easily with a smile, “It’s a silly song, but it was an… interesting performance all the same.” Interesting seemed too light a word for it when a man had been hung from the rafters during the ballet portion. But that didn’t seem a good point of conversation.

“Did that Daae girl sing in it?”

“No, she didn’t sing in the performance.” Though the Phantom had certainly wanted her voice. Before they could get Christine into the proper costuming, the man had acted. That was the first time Meg’s mother had seemed truly afraid. The Phantom had a short temper, that was a known fact, but he had never killed in front of an audience. He never killed unless someone was stupid enough to go after him, threaten his livelihood.

“Shame. I heard she had a lovely voice.” Tilda took Aminta away for a moment, went about switching her to the other side. “Have you noticed this spot on her face, Mademoiselle?”

“Meg is fine, Madame Tilda. And yes.” She knew the spot she was speaking of, the little place where the skin puckered as if it had been burned between the outer corner of her left eye and her ear. “We’ve noticed it. We only hope it will stay small.”

“It’s a shame. She has such a lovely little face otherwise.”

Meg said nothing in reply to that. Aminta was still a perfect little baby in her own view, she was more than perfect in Erik’s. The Phantom would not take kindly to hear any insult to his little angel, she knew. In the bassinet, Tilda’s little boy began wailing and if Aminta had not been nursing, she would probably join in.

“Can you go check him for me? I doubt he needs fed.”

“Don’t worry, you have your hands full,” Meg smiled as she set the papers aside and went to fetch the baby. “What was his name again?”

“Dante. He’s been my loudest so far, but you know what that means. He has good lungs.” Tilda laughed at that and Meg gave a soft sniff. At least there would be no mess, put with a small pat she found the child’s diaper wet. She moved the dresser which had been cleared of its contents to be used more as a changing table since Aminta had arrived. “I have spare diaper cloths in the bag I brought along there.”

Meg nodded as she spoke, “I’ll take care of it… Aminta is a rather quiet child. You don’t think that means anything, do you?”

“No, no, of course not.” Tilda fixed the lacey trim of the little girl’s sleeves as Meg went about cleaning up Dante, careful not to prick his delicate skin with the pins. “She’s not competing for attention. My first was an angel, only really cried when he got sick.”

“That’s a relief,” Meg hummed. She would hate if there were any complications, though her mother would have already known most likely. Still, Tilda had had a good few children—had lost a couple of them, Meg had been told—and Meg figured she would know more in that regard. After all, Meg’s mother had gotten a wet nurse for herself the first few months of her life so that she could return to her own work in the ballet. Once Meg was big enough to crawl across the room, the instructor had allowed her to come and watch her mother dance. And then she was a ballerina and her mother the instructor.

“I believe we are all done for now.” Tilda held Aminta up to her cloth covered shoulder to rub her back. Meg brought Dante over to the bed. The woman would leave for a few hours, tend to her own home, and be back in the evening before dark. Once again near the change of the day when Dante would wake her up. They were on nearly the same schedule, off by maybe an hour. Tilda laid Aminta on the bed where the baby’s mouth opened in a wide yawn, little limbs stretching. Meg handed the little boy over.

“I think mother will be here as well tonight. She wanted to ask how many more months children usually nurse. It’s been a while since she had to deal with a baby.”

“Usually a year. Sometimes a while longer.” The wet nurse bundled her child tightly. It had been a cold autumn when Aminta had arrived and since the weather had only gotten harsher. That was the main reason Tilda brought along her son; if the weather looked too bad, she would stay overnight. Meg didn’t mind sparing her bed, going to the room Christine once used. In fact, she rather enjoyed it since they had cleaned the room, dusted the furnishings and set it with fresh linens. Once she was big enough, it was to be Aminta’s room.

“I’ll be sure to let her know in case she doesn’t get to be here tonight.”

There was the usual goodbye that was less of a goodbye and more of a ‘see you in a few hours.’ Aminta had fallen asleep spread out on the plush spread of Madame Giry’s bed. She slept more on beds than in her own crib, slept on chests more than pillows.

“Has that bumbling nurse finally gone?” a grumpy voice asked from inside of the wardrobe. If it wasn’t an often occurrence, Meg might have jumped. However, Erik had been using the hidden panel in the back of the wardrobe to check in quite often during the day when the ballerinas might be anywhere wandering around the opera building.

“She’s a very nice woman. You might appreciate her service,” Meg said though she smirked a little as she sat at the edge of her own bed, watching the Phantom step out. Erik. Watching Erik step out, thankfully not knocking over any of the wardrobe’s content. His face was uncovered, he no longer donned the mask so long as he wasn’t stepping into the corridors. Meg was relatively sure it was because he wanted Aminta to be used to the way he looked.

“If she says a word about my daughter’s appearance again, I want her fired.” Of course he had been listening in. And Meg had to wonder how long. “Which song were you looking over, little Giry?”

Meg raised a brow at him but he was leaning over his child, tracing the curve of her full cheek with his fingers.

“Poor Fool. I’m sure you remember it.”

The smirk that curled on the unmarred side of his lips told her that he did indeed remember.

“That bitch croaked like a frog, didn’t she?” Erik hummed quietly as if he was afraid Aminta might understand the meaning of his words. Meg nearly choked on her laughter and she missed the way Erik’s eyes cut to her. The young woman covered her mouth with a hand. “You’re allowed to admit it _was_ rather funny.”

“Perhaps if there was not a hanging so soon after,” Meg noted, “I might find it _appropriate_ to laugh.”

“That admittedly was an unfortunate occurrence.” His mouth opened as if he might say something else. An excuse perhaps. But then it closed and his head shook. “Nothing like that will happen again by my hand. That is not a man I want my child to know.”

As if she knew she was being spoken of, little eyes opened. One light, one dark, and a tiny smile forming. She was beginning to move more, could nearly roll to her stomach herself, and of course she could recognize the voice that was her father’s.

“Oh, my little angel,” Erik cooed as he let small fingers wrap around one of his own. His eyes, the same as Aminta’s, turned to Meg. “You seem to be looking over quite a bit of music. What was it last time? An aria?”

“Nothing like a prima donna can sing.”

“Ah, well, prima donnas are not always the greatest singers. They are just the ones who know how to gain the attention.”

“I suppose you might be right. All the same. I have no voice worth worrying over.”

“Then why the music, dear little Giry?”

“Can’t I enjoy the songs without singing them, Monsieur Phantom?” Her voice held a teasing note as she picked up the pages from _Il Muto_.

“Erik. Please.”

“Then you might call me Meg. I’m not so little. Aminta is the little one here, is she not?” Meg watched as Erik’s eyes narrowed just slightly, a smile still at his lips.

“I suppose you might be right.” He paused in speech, straightened with Aminta in his arms. Her small hands reached up and grabbed at the thin cords that tied his cloak neatly together. “Why do you not sing if you enjoy music so? I remember you singing quite often before all the trouble began.”

“It went without notice. I saw no point.”

“Does it give you joy? To sing?”

“I suppose at one point it might have.”

“And what changed?”

_You chose Christine as your student_. She dared not to speak Aminta’s mother’s name but rather shrugged. It had been jealousy, a feeling of inadequacy, that had quieted her own song. “I grew busy with other things, I suppose.”  

“Well the next time I see you, I expect to hear that voice of yours,” he warned with a smile. Meg was a bit shocked at those words and he gave her no time to make a reply as he escaped through the wardrobe again.


	6. Chapter 6

Aminta squealed happily as Meg came into the room, trying to push herself up from her stomach. The noise caught Madame Giry’s attention as she had been folding freshly laundered clothes—their own and Erik’s.

“How was the practice? Has Phoebe finally gotten her spin right?”

“Phoebe is only five, mother. I didn’t have the balance for a fouette until I was near ten,” Meg laughed out as she picked up Aminta and pressed kisses to both cheeks. The baby giggled, delighted.

“You were a clumsy child. Your limbs were done growing long before the rest of you.” Madame Giry’s voice was dry but she was smiling and Meg laughed, used to the way her mother teased.

“Like you, mother?”

“Perhaps. Though I carried myself much more elegantly even when my body moved awkwardly.”

“Of course you did,” Meg said with a roll of her eyes as she looked back to Aminta, “Mother was always a picture of perfection. I’m sure you will be, too.”

“Erik will never say any different.” There was a pause in the Madame’s words. “Erik has said other things as well. About you.” The older woman looked over. “Have you promised to sing for him?”

“I made no promises… Though he did _request_ it of me. He was listening in on my conversation with Tilda, I had only said I was looking over a piece of music.”

“And have you sang for him yet?”

“Once,” Meg admitted with a small shrug of her shoulders. “When did you get this dress for her? Is it new?”

“We’ve had that one a while now, did you not notice? Your mind has been wandering.” Madame Giry moved to put the folded linens on the bed, not a wrinkle in the fabric. “Do you remember what we spoke of?”

“I haven’t sought the Phantom out.”

“No, you haven’t. But I do not think it is good for either of you that he is drawing his focus in.” A sigh escaped the Madame’s lips. “You are growing into a woman, Meg, anyone can see that. And you must be cautious. You _should_ be focusing on ballet and it is partially my fault that you haven’t been… From now on, I think it best if you lead the morning exercises and the noon rehearsal in my place.”

“But mother—”

“You will still see Aminta if that is where your concern lies. And Erik. And if you wish to sing, you may. But only once I have insured his own head is where it needs to be.” Madame Giry moved around the bed and held to Meg’s shoulders. “Let me have the concern of a mother.” She didn’t want to see Meg trapped in a cage when she had seen so little outside the opera house. Once upon a time she had wished to travel, to leave for other places to learn more both of ballet and opera.

“Of course, mother.” Meg gave her a smile, though a bit sad, rocking Aminta in her arms. The Madame nodded and Meg passed the child to her arms.

“I assure it will all make more sense when you are older,” Madame Giry told her gently, “You are not even eighteen years. You have so much left to know before you devote your life here.”

“You used to say you never wished me to leave Paris.”

“A mother must know when to let a child spread their wings, Meg. Just take it into consideration, won’t you?” The two women were quiet. Meg moved to fold the rest of the basket’s contents.

“Do you think you will ever leave this place, mother?” she wondered aloud, “Do you think Erik might?”

“We have yet to.” Madame Giry stepped out of her heels and settled back on the bed, taking a rattle from the side table. Aminta’s fingers wrapped around the handle and she started shaking it. “Though that’s no reason to say that we won’t one day. Who can say? Maybe one day we will all sail to the Americas. Or perhaps our roots are much too deep to ever leave.”

Meg looked to her mother, a button up collared shirt in her hands. Something of Erik’s. Putting more thought into it, she doubted her mother would ever leave this place. The Madame had been a student since she was a small girl, had been the youngest ballerina to perform on stage with the troupe. She hadn’t had much of a home outside of the opera house, especially after Meg was born. While she didn’t know all the details, Meg knew that she had never known a father to be her own and her grandparents had never had them come to their home. She did know that her mother’s mother had died two years prior. Neither of them had attended the service.

“I’ll consider it,” Meg said softly as she started a small pile of dress shirts. “Once Aminta is bigger... I’ll consider it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Time passed with some ease. The days of Aminta’s infancy seemed to fly away but Erik _was_ happy when they were no longer in need of a wet nurse. Especially when Tilda was necessary for two years rather than one because the baby was so very picky with her food. Weening her had been a challenge no one had wanted to face, but the time passed as all times do and Aminta continued to grow. She would toddle around the Giry’s room under watchful eyes because her own room wasn’t as large. Erik would often sleep in there, though Aminta had grown accustomed to sleeping with the Giry’s, particularly Meg. And she continued sleeping in the bed with the younger Giry until she was nearing five.

"Papa! Papa!" a little voice called and Erik had not a moment to even stir when a weight suddenly dropped onto his chest. He huffed out a breath and his eyes opened to see his little girl grinning down at him. Madame Giry stood in the doorway of the room, smiling gently.

“Hello, my angel,” Erik said with a little smile before glancing to the Madame. “The door, please.”

“The ballerinas are all in practice,” she assured but she pulled the door closed all the same. Because ballerinas were not always where they ought to be. “And construction is not due to start until tomorrow.”

“I know.” He sat up once Aminta moved off of his chest, little eyes still focused. “Once they begin, I will have to stay out of sight during all of the hours.” But it was for the best, rebuilding the opera where it had crumbled. The ballerinas needed more room to practice and they needed something to practice _for._ In the past years, many young girls had come to take lessons under Madame Giry but once they were ready to preform, they had gone on their way. Moreover, Erik missed the music that once filled the Opera Populaire. He wanted his daughter to grow up in an opera house, not just the remnants of one.

“You should be alright in here, though. I keep the door locked. And we can always further block.” Madame Giry went to the mirror and fixed it so the passage behind it was concealed. “You can always take refuge in our room as well.” She turned to look at Erik and Aminta. They looked quite alike in the best ways. Their eyes were the same, and the shape of their faces. But Aminta did have a small disfigurement still that looked more like a burn, as if her face had been pressed to an iron and to anyone who asked the Madame had said she had been caught in a house fire that had claimed both of her parents.

“I plan to keep watch from my hiding places. Those areas shouldn’t be touched,” Erik told the other.

“Why do you have to hide, papa?” Aminta asked. It was something she always questioned, why her father had to hide from sight. Why she couldn’t speak of him to anyone other than the Giry’s.

“Little angel, it is just the way things are.” As they always had been. He didn’t want to tell his child it was because he was feared for his appearance nor that it was because he had made himself a wanted man. It had been years now, but if he was to make a reappearance, he feared the law would still search him out.

“But _why_?” Aminta pressed, her lips forming a pout.

“Because people can be cruel,” he caved, “And it is easier if I stay hidden away. For the both of us.” Aminta still looked unsatisfied but before she could continue her interrogation, Erik was speaking again. “Meg is leaving soon, isn’t she?”

“Meggy is going to go to Italy. She told me so,” Aminta smiled, “And Madame showed it to me.”

“Is that right?” Erik smiled, attention once again turning to his daughter. “How did she show you?”

“It was in a big book.”

“An atlas,” Madame Giry smiled, “And yes, she is to be leaving at the end of the week. To Italy to study opera there. I suggested she might make the journey to Russia as well—they have a lovely ballet there.”

“Is she not interested in ballet?”

“Opera interests her more. And I pulled a few favors. Signora Giudecelli resides in Italy now, you know. She will be helping Meg find an instructor.”

“You’re sending her to La Carlotta?” Erik snorted.

“Who’s that?” Aminta asked.

“She used to sing here, little one,” Madame Giry answered, giving Erik a look all the while, “And she had a very excellent instructor when she was young, when she first lived in Italy. Signora Giudecelli was a lovely singer.”

“And quite full of herself,” Erik mentioned with a roll of his eyes.

“That was something of her own personality. I do not have the opportunity to see Meg to another country and seek out someone to help her, so I am doing the best I can.”

“She might’ve stayed here. I could have easily trained her if you had asked. Her voice is not as ordinary as she seems to believe.” Erik was a bit upset that the younger Giry was leaving, if he were to be honest. Though they weren’t necessarily close, he still had a fondness for the woman. And he never missed the way she looked at him.

“It’s good for her to see more than one teacher, Erik. What’s more, it is good for her to know more of the world than our little corner of Paris.”

“Do you think I might go to Italy one day, papa?” Aminta looked wide eyed up at her father. Madame Giry was sure he would tell her no, that this was her home and that she ought not stray far from it. But he surprised her as seemed to have a habit of doing.

“I believe you might go anywhere your heart desires,” he smiled, “But only once you are big, Aminta. Until then I believe there is enough here for you to explore.” The child grinned and she nodded before hopping off the bed and going towards the wardrobe to drag it open.

“She will have a bit more freedom to explore after the construction is done,” the Madame hummed as Aminta tugged at a dress stuck on a hanger. Madame Giry crossed and took it down for her. It was nothing too extraordinary but all of the little girl’s dresses had frills and bows and looked much too pretty for her to be playing in. But she did.

“She will have it once I teach her the maze of passages,” Erik corrected, quickly going on when Madame Giry gave him a stern look, “I’ve used the past years to make them safe. There are no traps laid any longer… Thinking back there was never much need. I didn’t catch much more than rats.” Save a couple occasions of those too curious for their own good. But Erik had sealed up the entrances so that even he had to really try to get them open, had concealed the way down to his own cellar. 

“I trust that. I doubt that you’d let Aminta go anywhere you didn’t think safe.” Madame Giry helped Aminta, who had shed the less decorated nightgown, into the dress by lowering it down over slim up reaching arms. Then she knelt to do up the bow at the child’s back. “You might get her something more appropriate if she’s to be wandering.”

“I’m sure I can find something,” Erik shrugged, “I suppose rehearsal is starting soon?”

“Meg is already running the exercises. I was a bit sluggish this morning.” Had started becoming more and more so though she tried not to let it affect her. It was age, had to be. And a lack of sleep the night before. “One of us will bring lunch here. For now, I must take my leave.”

“Good day, Madame.”

“Good day, Madame!” Aminta parroted her father, looking up at the older woman with a sweet grin.

“Good day,” Madame Giry said with a smile before turning and taking her leave.

This was how most days started. Aminta, if she had slept the night with Meg and the Madame, would be delivered to her father for the morning so that the ballerinas could do their practice without any interruption. Erik usually used the time to teach the little girl as much as he could on the spectrums of literature and music. He had yet to take her down to his domain, but he planned to once she was a bit older. He had always agreed with Madame Giry—the underground was no place for a child. And he wanted her to know her way through the passages first, so that she would not feel trapped and could return to the surface once she pleased it.

Come afternoon, Madame Giry brought two plates of food and a few hours later once the practices were over, Meg came.

“Just in time,” Erik said as the door opened and the blonde woman slipped inside. “I thought she might start swinging from the bedframe.”

“Were you growing bored of your father’s lessons, little one?” Meg asked as she lifted Aminta up. The little girl clung to her, hair having been braided by her father during some part of the day.

“I don’t like history,” the child said with her nose scrunched. “Papa said it’s important. I don’t think so.”

“We must know history if we do not wish to repeat it,” Erik mentioned as he stood from the vanity’s bench.

“Very true,” Meg nodded, “But perhaps wait until she is old enough to truly understand such things.” A little exchange of smiles. Aminta looked between them, then tugged on one of Meg’s sleeves to gain back her attention.

“I want to go to the garden,” she told Meg once the woman looked to her, “Papa said he can’t go with me. Can we go?”

“Of course,” the older agreed before sparing a glance to Erik, “Good evening, monsieur.”

“Good evening,” Erik returned with a bow of his head. He watched the two leave. And then he escaped through the mirror into the passage that would lead down to his true home within the opera house. Down where he felt he could be himself more freely.

When Meg and Aminta came in, the sounds of an organ playing could be heard just barely. The phantom of a song that always hung in the air during the evening hours, something none of the ballerinas spoke of but Aminta would dance to it, knowing it was her father playing. She made Meg dance with her sometimes as they traveled through the corridors.

This was something Meg knew she would miss.


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t Meg leaving that made things change so but that was certainly the first thing that did change. Change for the worse. Meg got into a carriage on a particularly sunny day. The troupe had stood with Madame Giry and waved, and on the roof Aminta and Erik had watched until they could no longer see the buggy.

Erik had not had another chance to see Meg and that he regretted but he said nothing to let this feeling be known. He just hoped that she would not spend too long away from them all. And with the days, weeks, _months_ that passed, a sort of sadness seemed to seep from him and into his daughter. Together, though, they acted happy. They were happy.

With one less person to watch Aminta, the girl began spending more time with her father who showed her the secrets of the opera house little by little. How to get where and places where one could spy. It was fun for the little girl and her smile made Erik happier until things began to change. Aminta liked to watch the ballerinas from behind a sliver of mirror that Erik had replaced—it was the only piece of the ballet room that one could see into. However he noticed how every time when she came from secretly watching them, she would glance at herself in the mirror else avoid looking at it altogether. When she did look, though, she would touch the corner of her face where her skin was marred and frown.

He knew then she was beginning to understand things. Things he didn’t want her to understand, but he had no power to stop it.

Madame Giry would often take Aminta in the evenings, usually would wait until the bulk of workers had retired for the day. That wasn’t always assured, though, and one of the days when Aminta had wandered away she had come across one of the workers. Thinking she had walked in off the street, the man had chased her. Thankfully one of the older ballerinas had heard the ruckus and gotten there before anything worse could happen, returned her to Madame Giry. The man had been fired before Erik found out. It was lucky for him because when Aminta cried to him, told him how the man had chased her and called her names, he would have killed him.

From there it was instructed that Aminta couldn’t wander far from the Madame. Eventually the memory faded from Aminta’s mind until it was only a nightmare that would frighten her awake even after a year’s time. Even after the time of many years.

When she got bigger and her focus became better, Madame Giry thought perhaps Aminta might have an interest in joining the ballet troupe. It was a promising idea, even in Erik’s opinion. The older ballerinas had seen her before, some of them even remembered her as the baby the Madame would carry in one arm as she tapped the beat of the music with a cane in her free hand. They were kind enough, encouraging enough, and for a little over a year it all worked just fine.

But children can be cruel. The teasing came from a girl named Phoebe who was jealous of the praise Aminta received. And a few more joined in the fun, mocking her for the puckering of her skin, for her mismatched eyes, for anything at all. It made Aminta lose interest in ballet rather quickly.

“Is that why you wear a mask, papa? Because people are mean to you, too?” Aminta knew her father could watch her in the practice room, could hear what the girls spat when Madame Giry couldn’t. A sad sigh left Erik and he settled next to his daughter, put an arm around her.

“People are cruel when they do not understand others,” Erik tried to explain, wiping tears away from Aminta’s cheeks.  

"Am I really ugly, Papa?" she whimpered and Erik almost flinched at the question.

"No! My dear child, you are the most beautiful creature who has ever touched this earth," Erik told his daughter in truth for he truly believed that. She was beautiful, perfect. A miracle to himself.

“Then why do _they_ say I am?” she demanded and the hurt in her voice broke his heart. It made him remember when he was young. When people had pointed and called him a freak. It took every ounce of his control not to weep for her.

“Because they are cruel.”

“They don’t call the other girls ugly.” Aminta’s voice was wavering. “They say it because I _am._ Because of _this._ ” Her hand covered the corner of her face, like she was trying to conceal it from even him. Erik took a pause, fearing he might say the wrong thing and make things worse.

“Do you believe me ugly, little angel?” He told himself it was to prove a point to her. That it wasn’t because worry had suddenly struck him. And her wide eyes turned to him.

"I think you are marvelous." This small statement made him take pause. He had never been called so much as ordinary. Marvelous. That didn't seem to describe him at all. Looking into his daughter's eyes, though, he knew she spoke truthfully from her heart.

“Then why do you consider yourself ugly when my deformity is so much more than yours, my dear? Because those girls hurt you?” he asked and cupped her cheeks, “What you think of me is what I think of you. Only I feel that a thousand-fold when I see your little face. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, papa,” Aminta nodded before going on to say, “I don’t want to go back to the ballet class.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to go out there again.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Truly?” she asked and that hopefulness hurt him in a way he couldn’t explain. That his daughter, this young, no longer wanted to venture out and only because little girls were cruel. There was that urge. That urge to hurt what had hurt his child. But this was only the work of children and that was a line he would never cross. He’d never hurt a child, even if his own was so upset.

“You don’t need to do anything you don’t wish to.”

Aminta nodded. Her figure leaned heavily against her father, the last few sniffs leading into the quiet of breathing.

“You said you would show me where you stay during the daytime once I knew the tunnels well enough,” she mentioned.

“I did, my angel.”

“Can you show me now?”


	9. Chapter 9

It was odd the way time moved by. Madame Giry asked only a few times why Aminta had stopped coming to practices but the young girl would never say. She would make vague excuses and shrugged her shoulders enough that Madame Giry could guess the reasoning. When she would ask the girl if she wanted to go to the gardens, Aminta would shake her head. She didn’t want to go outside, she hardly wanted to come up to her room once she had been down to her father’s. And soon enough she wouldn’t and when the Madame wanted to speak to her, she had to go down through the passage. On rare occasions Aminta would come up to meet her in Madame Giry’s bedroom. The Madame suspected these were the days she missed seeing the sun. It wasn’t so easy to go up to the roof when the workers were moving around.

The construction took longer than first thought when snow made the unfinished roof over the theatre collapse in during the winter. It was a hard winter, one that might have starved them out if it wasn’t for a good supply of dried meats and rice, canned vegetables and the like. By time the workers could start again the stage had to be replaced for water had soaked so into the wood. Most things had to be replaced.

The delay of the construction also delayed Meg’s return. But she did begin sending letters to Madame Giry to be delivered to Erik and Aminta. They sent their own back, Aminta’s occasionally joined with sketches of faces. Usually the ballerinas, the ones she could see in that sliver of one way glass. She told Meg many things, like how she could now play piano and the organ, how her father was training her to sing, and how she stayed down in the cellar these days. Meg tried to keep things positive, tried to tell her to go out more. Mainly Meg expressed concerns to Erik in her letters to him. Erik let her know he also had such concerns. He let Meg know he missed her dearly. She missed him, too.

Aminta almost thirteen when things finally seemed to settle. The construction finished when the new seats were put into the theatre and Erik took it upon himself to go up to Box Five once the workers left for good. He put up a veil of sorts, a curtain that you could easily see through when the great chandelier was lit so one could see the stage. He blocked the door up as well so the only way in was a trap door at the side.

It was safer. Just in case.

Messieurs Andre and Firmin returned at Madame Giry’s beckoning and the both were surprised to see the Opera Populaire was put back together from the shambles it had been in.

“What?” she had asked, sounding clueless though she was not, “It was you that called for the repairs, was it not?”

“No, Madame, it certainly was _not_!” Firmin spat out though he was less angry and more frightened, “I would rather have returned to this place and seen charred walls!”

“We can hope that will not happen again after such a kind benefactor kept up your property for you, messieurs.”

“Madame—”

“If you do not wish to return to the business, I know someone very interested in buying. And you two can go back to, what was it? Oh yes, the _junk_ business.” Madame Giry’s lips pressed as she heard a little burst of laughter erupt behind the wall. It had become a bad habit of Aminta’s through the years to sneak about in the passages, listen in… laugh. The ballerina’s believed it a ghost but they had no fear of the spirit of another girl. Madame Giry had seen one of the younger ballerinas, Elise, talking to the wall on more than one occasion when the older girls would run off without her.

The Madame wondered if the little ghost ever spoke back. But she never brought it up. When she saw Aminta, Erik usually wasn’t far, and Madame Giry doubted he would like to know of his daughter’s ‘haunting’.

“What was _that_?” Andre questioned, taking a step towards Firmin so their shoulders bumped.

“There are still ballerinas residing in this place, messieurs. Are you scared of little girls?”

Another fit of laughter and then the sound of feet running off. Firmin huffed.

“You might teach your girls not to listen in on private conversations, Madame.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it. Now, you were saying you were interested in selling the opera house?” Her question made the men hesitant and they looked to each other.

“Well… it is still a good business, but we have no lead even if we _do_ have ballet dancers,” Firmin noted, “No one will want to sing here, not after the _history_.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Madame Giry warned, “Artists, as well loved as they are, are low in demand for the quantity of them. And if you are worried of a lead, my daughter Meg has been studying with the Italians for several years now under the watch of our own Signora Giudecelli. If you wish, I can send for her. She was due to return in another six months.”

“Signora Giudecelli?” Andre asked with some surprise, “Do you think _she_ might…?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andre, after all _she_ went through?” Firmin snorted.

“Signora Giudecelli has actually settled down. She has a nephew she looks after, he sings now. I could always send to her and ask if he might want to audition?”

“Perhaps… perhaps that will work. Yes, Madame. Would you send for the both of them? Meg and this nephew of La Carlotta?”

“Of course, Monsieur Firmin,” Madame Giry nodded.

“I have a good feeling about this, Madame,” the man grinned and with the other man, he turned. They walked towards the door out of the practice room.

“Oh, messieurs?” Madame Giry called lightly, catching their attention. The two looked back around to see her soft smile as she held up a letter with a broken red seal. “Once the Opera Populaire does start gaining business, the Phantom will be requiring his pay. Double the first night of every new performance.” The blood drained from Firmin’s face and Andre looked faint. “He is very excited to see you both running the opera house again and says,” she paused to glance at the letter, “he knows you will not fail to listen again.”


	10. Chapter Ten

Meg returned within a week of being summoned. Romano Giudecelli, the nephew of La Carlotta, arrived soon after for the ballerinas to ogle over. He drunk in the attention well enough to prove who had raised him the bulk of his life. Not yet seventeen, but large enough to trick anyone otherwise, and with a voice trained since he was very young.

Though she had been around the Giudecelli’s several years, Meg still retained her own attitude. Was still rather timid acting, smiling and complimenting those around her instead of herself. And eager to see those she had missed so much. Erik and Aminta did not come right away to greet her, mainly due to the fuss everyone was making. But Aminta wanted nothing else but to see the woman she had seen as a partial mother when she was little, the woman she had grown closer with through written letters.

“Are you sure you wish for them to be able to see you?”

“I want to see Meggy sing her audition. And I want her to see that I’m there. I’ll do what you always did, papa. I can wear a mask, too,” Aminta smiled up at him, and he tried not to let her see his hurt that she thought she had to hide her face. It was her choice. And if it made her feel better, he supposed it was best. “Do you have any that might fit me?”

“I’m sure I might,” Erik smiled gently and he walked down the few steps onto the other level of their little home beneath the Opera Populaire. Aminta moved to the foot of the bed and soon a sweet melody filled the space. Glancing over, Erik saw her at the music box. The old one shaped like a barrel with a monkey in Persian robes slowly tapping cymbals sitting atop it. “Do you remember the song, little angel?” He smiled when the girl nodded. “Then sing for me, won’t you?”

A little giggle left Aminta and she did as her father requested, singing lyrics she had sang so many times in these past years.   
“ _Masquerade, every face a different shade. Masquerade, turn around, there’s another mask behind you._ ” She paused the song as her father came to her with a simple white mask that would cover the top half of her face. A few beats missed without song but Erik picked up at the last strained notes from the music box.

“ _Hide your face so the world will never find you_.” He held the mask out to her with a sad smile. Aminta took it, put it up to her eyes. Erik pushed back her hair, growing darker each year. By the next it would be the mahogany brown of Christine’s but he tried not to think often of the woman. Occasionally he wondered if Aminta thought of her mother and who her mother might be. He wondered if she had spoken to Madame Giry about it, or even Meg through her letters. Maybe she had and they had said not to mention it again, but he doubted that.

“Do you think I ought not hide my face, papa?” she wondered even as Erik tied the ribbon to keep the mask settled on the bridge of her nose.

“I think that you should do whatever feels best so long as you know that you are the most beautiful child on this earth,” Erik smiled, making Aminta snort. He kissed the top of her head. “Are you planning to change?”

“Papa, I’m to be blending in. It isn’t a ball I’m going to,” Aminta reminded as she turned back to face him.

“Right,” he nodded, “And you know which turn to make to go to the Giry’s room?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Be good for them, little angel. And give this to the Madame.” Erik held out an envelope and Aminta took it. “It’s for messieurs Andre and Firmin. But you must give it to her, do you understand?”

“Only to Madame Giry,” Aminta said and raised on her toes to press a kiss to her father’s cheek. “I’ll see you in the evening, papa.”

With that she hurried off towards one of the passages, disappearing into it with a smile.

~-~-~-~-~

Madame Giry was prepared for a full day. The audition for Meg and Romano was only a formality of a task, but there were to be auditions to find other performers. They weren’t in much of a need for ballerinas, but Madame Giry was expecting a few former students to show. There was a new composer coming from a smaller opera house in the south and the orchestra was something he could put together himself, musicians would come another day for that.

Yes, it was to be quite a day. And then Aminta climbed out from the wardrobe and she knew it would be only that much more. An interesting day indeed.

“Good morning, Madame,” the young girl chirped.  
“Good morning, little mademoiselle. What are you doing here looking so like your father?” Madame Giry was of course referencing the mask which Aminta wore, easily covering the marred spot on her face. The girl smiled almost shyly.

“I wanted to go with you, to see Meggy sing.” With a moment of thought, Aminta held out an envelope. “That is for the messieurs. From papa.”

Madame Giry took the envelope and turned it in her hands to look at the seal a moment before nodding.

“Of course. I’ll give it to them as soon as we see them. And you may come with me, Aminta, but you must be on your best behavior in front of the messieurs. Try not to speak too much. Do you remember the story you used to tell people?”

“Yes, Madame. There was an accident when I was little that scarred my face. You are my auntie who keeps an eye on me from time to time.”

“Wonderful. Can you get my cane?” the Madame asked and Aminta trotted over to retrieve it. At one point the cane had only been an accessory. An extension to tap to the tempo, help lift ballerinas’ chins and arms a bit higher, to knock vermin out of the way. Now, though, Madame Giry needed it for the long walks through the Opera Populaire. She couldn’t stay standing through the entirety of rehearsals.

“Here, Madame,” Aminta smiled as she handed the cane over. Madame Giry took it and shifted some of her weight to it.

“Thank you… You know, you really don’t need to mask. You look perfectly fine without it, if you are afraid the messieurs may stare—”

“No, I just want to wear it,” the girl said quickly with a tight little smile. Because no matter what her father said to her, she couldn’t see herself in a light of beauty. He was her father, after all. He had to say sweet things to make her feel confident. And if she could hide the piece of her that caused her insecurity, why shouldn’t she? Her father had done the same, thought himself ugly. Aminta had meant her words to him, of course she had. Looking at her father was like looking at a painting. He was not necessarily beautiful but he was… himself. That was something she thought wonderful. Praise worthy. But in herself? She didn’t see it. Couldn’t.

“If that is truly what you want, Aminta. Come along.”

Together the two started out, towards the theatre. Aminta was usually lively. She ran everywhere she went. But for Madame Giry, she went slowly, though she was nearly bouncing on her feet when they walked into the big space, the stage laid out before them. The older woman was tempted just to tell the girl to go ahead for Firmin and Andre were sitting at the front, but as they didn’t know Aminta, she decided it best they appear together.

"Messieurs," Madame Giry greeted as she arrived at the front aisle, the orchestra pit the only thing separating them from the stage.

"Ah, Madame Giry," Monsieur Firmin said, standing up as she walked to them, "It is nice to see you.” His eyes flicked curiously to Aminta. They didn’t stay there, though, as Madame Giry spoke once more.

"You won't think so very long,” Madame Giry assured. Monsieur Firmin frowned and then he saw the envelope she held out.

"I… I thought you were only teasing the other day, Madame… The Phantom can't still be here, can he?"

“That’s impossible!” Andre chimed in, face very white, “How could he be here?”

“I wouldn’t know, monsieur. All I do know is that was left at my bedside and I was always to deliver these to you.”

“Yes, Madame… of course. No bad news, you don’t think?” Firmin asked quietly.  
“I feel if there was bad news, we would know it by this time,” Madame Giry assured as she took her seat, Aminta helping her with a hand on her arm. “I’m fine, dear. Don’t start worrying over me.”

“Who is this young lady, Madame?” Andre asked, wanting the change of subject immediately.

“I thought she was the pianist,” Firmin murmured and Aminta smiled a little at that.

“This is my niece Aminta, messieurs,” Madame Giry told the two, “Forgive my lack of introduction. Dear, these are Messieurs Firmin and Andre. I do hope you both do not mind, she wanted to see Meg seen today… Has the pianist not arrived?”

“Not that we’ve seen and we have been here for nearly an hour milling around. You aren’t late of course, we just wanted to see the renovations.” Monsieur Firmin mentioned nothing of Box Five, the way it was now shrouded but the way his eyes glanced to it told Madame Giry he had indeed noticed.

“It’s all very nice, isn’t it? Nearly the same, the old chandelier was even hung into place,” the woman smiled tightly before releasing a sigh and placing her cane over her knees. Firmin passed the letter to Andre who tucked it away. Aminta stayed on her feet, glancing towards the stage. “I suppose we will have to wait. Dear, sit. Please, you are making _my_ legs hurt.”

“I… Might I play instead? Just until the pianist arrives?” Aminta requested. Madame Giry tilted her head at the question.

“You play, mademoiselle?” Firmin asked as he settled back in his own chair.

“Very well, I think,” Aminta nodded and Madame Giry stifled a laugh.

“We must work on your humility, dear. Here. Messieurs, what are the songs we are running through?” she asked and Andre handed over a small book, the music for the opera Hannibal.

“We wish everyone to perform the chorus on the first page I marked there,” Andre told her, “And we wish for Meg to perform the aria. That song is marked as well. Are you sure you can play through those well enough?”

“This is one of my favorite operas, monsieur. I could play you these without the book,” Aminta smiled, though she took it all the same to check which chorus it was they wanted. The piano was up on the stage so she had to take a door that would lead her up.

While she was gone for a moment, Monsieur Firmin leaned over to ask, “Madame, why is she dressed with a mask? Isn’t she a bit old for that?”

“She turned thirteen only a few days ago, monsieur, but she wears the mask to hide a scar on her face. She’s very self-conscious of it.” When the Madame had explained, Firmin seemed a bit embarrassed to have said anything but he did speak a moment longer if only to distract from his comment about the mask.

“Only thirteen, you say? And she knows all of Hannibal?”

“My brother was very inclined towards the arts, monsieur.” That wasn’t quite a lie. Her true brother had been. Only her true brother had also died very young and without wife or children. “When she was young, he taught her many things on his piano.”

“Fascinating,” Firmin noted and went quiet as Aminta crossed the stage to the baby grand settled in the front corner for now. When she sat, Firmin called for the first of those auditioning and so it began.

The pianist never came. Romano was the male equivalent of his aunt, a wonderful voice with a demanding personality. He insisted a different key for his audition. Aminta didn’t blink an eye, easily shifting two steps lower for him. Never did she miss a key during any of the auditions, even when the singers’ voices on occasion made her cringe.

“Okay, that’s enough, thank you!” Andre called up to one woman with a particularly screechy sound to her voice that had given them all headaches before the song had even began.

“What number was that?” Firmin asked in a grumbling tone. They had been at it for a few hours due to the fact that Andre insisting on testing range once he knew Aminta was acquainted enough with a piano. Firmin hadn’t liked the idea given it turned what might be three minutes into ten or more.

“Twnty-three, I believe,” Madame Giry said with some disinterest. It was important to know range, to test singers, but one could only listen to the same portion of a song so many times before growing tired of it. “If we are not close to the aria, I think we should take a small break.”

“No, no. We only had the twenty-three, thank God,” Firmin told her before raising his voice to call, “Meg Giry, might you step out?”

For her, Aminta turned to smile. Meg looked no different, not really. She was still in that age of adulthood where not much changes despite the years. Her hair was still blonde and perhaps a bit longer, and when she walked there was more confidence. Her smile, though, was still radiant, and she fought herself to keep from running to Aminta and pulling her into her arms.

“You know the song you’re singing for us, right, Mademousille?”

“ _Think of Me_ , isn’t that right?” Meg asked Firmin and he nodded before motioning to Aminta. The girl smiled and without turning a page of music, she began, her focus switching between the keys and Meg—she hardly even had to look at the piano.

“My, how old did you say she was?” Andre whispered as the introduction was played.

“Thirteen,” Madame Giry smiled, a bit smug due to her pride in the girl. Her girl, she had helped raise Aminta after all. And both of her girls on the stage in this small performance made her practically glow. It was lovely, especially as this was the first time she had the chance to hear Meg’s trained voice sing.

The entire thing went smoothly. Meg hit every note on the head, voice both strong and soft at the same time. It was mesmerizing. Lovely. The last word hung, drawn out, and the piano quieted. The messieurs got to their feet to applaud for the young woman and Meg, flushing, curtsied. Madame Giry stood as well, a bit slower, to join the two men.

“Mademoiselle Giry, that was a _stunning_ performance. Perhaps the best we’ve heard, don’t you think Andre?” Monsieur Firmin asked, enthusiastic.

“Extraordinary! Both of you were extraordinary, you especially Mademoiselle Giry.”

Standing, Aminta rushed to Meg to put her arms around the other woman. The young Giry laughed and kissed the girl’s hair. It was odd. This child was so much larger compared to the one she had left behind, the image in her head still of a little girl who hardly stood as tall as her mother’s cane.

“You sounded lovely, Meggy,” Aminta chirped. Hers was probably the most meaningful praise.

“And you played wonderfully,” Meg returned, glancing to see the messieurs had taken their seats once more. The Madame gave the girls a smile and waved a hand for their dismissal as the two men spoke to one another, about the others who had auditioned Meg assumed. She turned her attention back to Aminta. “Come along, we have so much to speak of.”


End file.
